LITMIR.BIZ

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you ought to just stick around here for now. Your mom might worry if you’re not here when she gets up. Moms can be funny that way, you know.”

      The boy nodded solemnly, glumly. “Yeah, I know. I’m supposed to stay with my mom or with Cheyenne all the time. Stupid, huh? I’m not a baby. Heck, I’ll be six in fifty-three days. Old enough to go plenty of places by myself.”

      The impassioned speech was punctuated by a loud, mansize grumbling from the vicinity of the little boy’s stomach that had Colt biting the inside of his cheek.

      “You take time for breakfast before you headed out this morning, partner?”

      Nicholas shook his head. “Nope. We got nothin’ but bran muffins over there. Bran muffins stink.”

      “I’d have to agree with you there.” He paused for only a moment, knowing he had no choice but to try to befriend the boy. The quicker he finished this job, the quicker he could return to the ranch to salvage what was left of his vacation.

      It still left a sour taste in his mouth, but he ignored it

      “I bought some doughnuts yesterday. Think you might be able to do me a favor and help me out by eating one or two?”

      “What kind?”

      “Powdered with raspberry filling.”

      Clearly tempted, the boy looked first at his own trailer then back at him, chewing on his lip. Colt could just imagine the internal debate whirring through his head. Dr. Rawlings probably had a typical maternal—and medical—prejudice against the kind of sugary treats that lacked any nutritional value. Powdered doughnuts likely placed pretty high up on that taboo food list, which should make them damn near irresistible to a boy who would be six in just fifty-three days.

      “Sure,” he finally said. “Raspberry filling’s my favorite.”

      Ignoring the twinges of a conscience he thought had withered away from disuse years ago, Colt walked inside the camper and grabbed the box off the table, then as an afterthought, poured a glass of milk from the little refrigerator. Maybe the calcium in the milk would redeem him in Dr. Rawlings’s eyes for the doughnut.

      Yeah, and just maybe before they rode tonight, Scout might up and decide to recite the Declaration of Independence.

      Colt handed the plate and cup to the boy. “Here you go.”

      “Thanks, mister.”

      “You can call me Colt. I figure a guy ought to be on a first-name basis with somebody he shares a jelly doughnut with, don’t you?”

      “Sure. I guess so.”

      “What do folks call you?”

      “My mom calls me Nicky, ’cept when she’s mad,” the boy said around a mouthful of doughnut. “When she’s mad, she calls me Nicholas Michael Prescott.”

      Prescott, not Rawlings, the alias the embezzler’s widow was using on the rodeo circuit. Either she hadn’t explained to her son that they needed to use a different last name for a while or he was too young to grasp the concept. If the boy chattered this freely with everyone, DeMarranville and his crew would have no trouble tracking her down.

      Maybe they already had.

      A vague sense of unease scratched between his shoulder blades and he scanned the cluster of campers and horse trailers. No one else was out this early in the morning, but that still didn’t make him feel any better.

      He turned back to the boy, shaking off the disquiet. “So you want to be a cowboy, do you?”

      “Yep. My mom says maybe someday I can get my very own horse. Not back in San Fra’cisco, but somewhere else.”

      “You lived in San Francisco? That’s quite a ways from here. You miss it much?”

      Nicky nodded and bit off another chunk of doughnut. “I had a race car bed and a great big tree house, with a trapdoor and a treasure box. My mom helped me build it. She says maybe we can build another one at our new house.”

      “Where are you moving to?”

      His thin shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Don’t know. My mom says we’ll know when we get there. We’re playin’ gypsies this summer, she said.” He paused for a moment. “Hey, what’s a gypsy?”

      “Somebody who travels around a lot.”

      “That’s what we’re bein’, all right.”

      “What about your dad? Did he help you build the tree house, too?”

      A sad look crossed the little boy’s face. “No. I asked him to, but he never had time. He died.”

      Before Colt could answer, the door to the trailer across the way banged open, hitting the aluminum skin, then ricocheting closed. It was instantly shoved open again and a frantic voice resounded in the morning air.

      “Nicky? Nicky!”

      Maggie stood barefoot in the doorway in an oversize T-shirt that just skimmed her knees. Her wheat-colored hair looked soft and crumpled, in direct contrast to her terrified gaze scouring the surroundings in every direction and her chest heaving in panic like she’d just outrun the meanest bull on the circuit.

      Colt could tell exactly when she spied them, because a vast relief poured into those deep brown eyes, followed quickly by the beginnings of anger.

      “Nicholas Michael Pres—” she faltered for just a moment “—Rawlings. What are you doing out here?”

      “Eatin’ breakfast with my pal Colt.” The boy mumbled, taking another bite.

      She sent a scathing look in Colt’s direction, whether at him or at the box of doughnuts in his hand he didn’t want to hazard a guess.

      He nodded politely, deciding an aw-shucks demeanor might be the best course of action. “Mornin’, Doc.”

      “Good morning,” she snapped, then turned back to her son. “We have talked about this, young man. You know the rules. I have to know where you are all the time.”

      Nicky, in the middle of a swallow of milk that left a white mustache on his upper lip, sent her a bewildered look. “You know ’xactly where I am. Right here.”

      “I didn’t know where you were when I woke up. All kinds of terrible things went through my head.”

      A mischievous gleam appeared in his eyes. “Like that big ugly aliens came down in a UFO and grabbed me and took me back to their planet so I could be their slave and wash their dirty socks and stuff?”

      “Something like that. A little less dramatic, maybe.” Her stern expression softened, and she pushed a lock of hair out of her son’s eyes. “You really scared me, bud. Don’t do that again, okay? Wake me up before you go outside next time.”

      “Okay. Can I finish breakfast with Colt? He said maybe sometime he’d let me ride his horse. His name’s Scout.”

      “I’m sure Mr. McKendrick has things to do this morning,” she said, her voice coated with a thin, crackly layer of frost.

      “Not really. If the boy wants to see the horse, I’d be glad to take him down to the pens.”

      “Please, Mom? I’ll come right back, I promise.”

      “Not right now. Maybe I can find time to take you down to see the horses later.”

      “But Mom... ”

      “Later, Nicholas. You’re still in trouble for breaking the rules. Now go inside and wash your hands and face.”

      The boy opened his mouth to argue, but closed it again at the implacable look on his mother’s face, a look even Colt could recognize. Smart kid, he thought, then grinned when Nicky trudged up the three metal steps of their trailer with his bottom lip jutting out in a pout a rock star would have envied.

      As

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